And What Happens Tomorrow
by Seereth
Summary: Alanna was, one must admit, extraordinarily lucky. And what might have happened if just once her luck had failed? [AU. Character death. Het and slash pairings]
1. Chapter One

**Chapter One: **_Winter, 436 H.E._  
Night grows short:  
a dream of fifty years  
breaks off before it ends.

Her hands contacted ice. She groped, trying to find the hole through which she had come; but it was useless. Shivering helplessly in the water, she groped unsuccessfully for the ember stone. Her hands flailed wildly, searching for anything to help her out...

But her lungs couldn't take it, and Alanna's eyes closed to blackness. The Black God was there, was coming…

* * *

They couldn't find Faithful after the accident, though Jon had to admit they weren't looking very hard.

"Gary," he said, grabbing his friend's arm, "I've got to go to the city. Someone needs to tell George and…And I think it should be me."

Gary nodded, his face frozen by cold and surprise into a dazed expression.

Jon wanted desperately to cry. Wanted _so_ badly.

But he couldn't yet.

"Will you tell my parents something when they ask?"

Gary nodded again. He even started to say something, but couldn't manage it. Jon stumbled off towards the stables.

* * *

When he reached the Dancing Dove, Jon fell rather than dismounted from Darkness' saddle. A hostler took the stallion away quietly, and Jonathan stumbled through the tavern's doors.

It was early still, the Dove was not as busy as it would be later, but George was there already, in front of the fire and a tankard in his hands. Jonathan wondered if he'd found out already…but no. George's expression was not stricken, as it would have been if he knew. The Thief King looked up, his welcoming grin fading into a worried frown.

"Lad?" he asked, pulling out a chair. "What's happened?"

"It's," tried Jon, "it's…Oh gods, George, she's _dead_. She's dead and – and - "

George's face was dead white. "Who, Jon?" he asked slowly, and Jon couldn't blame him for the question because he wanted so _badly_ to be able to say a different name. "Jon, who is it? Who - "

"Alanna, George," he whispered. "It's Alanna."

"Mithros," George said. "Mithros." His face was still white, but now his eyes were glassy too, and somehow that made Jon want to cry more than he already did. George blinked, and his eyes regained their clarity. Jon couldn't help but admire that. He realized George was speaking then, and perhaps he had better listen?

"…they know yet? That she was lying?"

"I don't know," said Jon. "They – they'll be getting Roger to get her out - "

Then he couldn't talk and he couldn't cry. George jerked his head at Solom, who nodded, and grabbed Jon's shoulder. "We'll talk upstairs," he said with a gentleness that was not much comfort. "Come on, Jon."

And what could Jon do but follow?

* * *

Jon came back early the next morning a little hung-over. Everyone pretended not to notice, and no one mentioned a time frame for retrieving Alanna's – though really they thought it was Alan's – body. Jon asked if they'd sent for Thom, looked relieved when they said they had, and locked the door to his room.

He staggered to his bed and collapsed there, staring at a ceiling he couldn't see yet. "It's over," he said. "We don't have to worry about slipping up anymore."

He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

* * *

The Great Mother Goddess folded her arms and regarded the forlorn cat before her with blazing eyes.

_You're the all powerful goddess, _said the cat. _I appreciate what I was supposed to do. But I am, after all, only a cat._

"We both know that is not precisely true," said the Goddess. "They were only human."

_Will you_ – began the cat, but the Goddess shook her head.

"We are not supposed to interfere too much in the lives of mortals. I do not think I could manage any other changes in the next few years without suffering Uusoae's fate."

_And by then the only one left will be the Duke._

"Have you a particular desire to meet the creators of the Universe?" asked the Goddess.

The cat shook its head violently.

"No. Well, perhaps he will not be such a bad king," she murmured. "Go – she is at peace, though you know it well already. Amuse yourself. But _stay in these realms._"

He was more than a cat, but _she_ was the Goddess. He trotted away and tried not to miss Alanna of Trebond too much.

* * *

When they brought up Jon's breakfast, Myles came with it. "I know you're not ready yet," said Myles gently, "but we really do need to talk."

Jonathan took a deep breath. "Yes, we do," he agreed. His voice, he was surprised to discover, was perfectly steady.

Jon looked down at the tray he'd taken from the maid and up at Myles. "There's more than enough food here," he said. "I…don't know if I can eat even half of it."

"Your mother," Myles said, "was very worried. Eating would alleviate some of that worry." He smiled tiredly at Jon. "I know we're in mourning, but I am still an old man and I need a chair."

Jon blinked. "Uh – of course. There's – there's one right here."

"Thank you," said Myles. He dropped unceremoniously into a lush red velvet arm chair. "Jon, what _was_ Alan's secret?"

Jon took a sip of fruit juice. "The whole world will know soon enough," he muttered. "All right. Alan of Trebond was really Alanna of Trebond. She switched places with her brother."

"When you put it like that it sounds like a very badly written novel," said Myles. "It's gratifying to know I was right. Though naturally I would have preferred different circumstances."

It was _such_ a Myles thing to say. Jon wished he could smile. Only two days ago he would have. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"Do you have any inkling as to what Their Majesties' reactions will be?"

Jon rubbed his eyes. "I can guess," he said tiredly. "I'm more worried about Uncle Gareth's."

* * *

When Thom of Trebond arrived exactly one week later, he was accompanied by one reluctant Mithran and Coram Smythesson.

Jon had asked to be the first to see Thom and his parents, wary perhaps of his reaction should his request be denied, granted it. So Jon waited just inside the rooms that had been given to Thom, hoping the sorcerer looked nothing like his sister.

He was disappointed in this, as the only difference between them seemed to be skin tone – Thom had a scholar's pallor – and that Thom was bearded.

"Coram," he said, nodding to the man-at-arms. He looked ten years older already, Jon thought. Thom's gaze flicked to the Mithran behind him. Jon shook his head. "They'll know what I have to say to you tomorrow, but…"

"It's not tomorrow yet," agreed Thom. "Thank you, Master Si-Cham. Your presence was invaluable."

The Mithran raised a cool eyebrow at the young sorcerer and bowed to Jonathan before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

"You won't get to Trebond with the weather they're having," said Jon, sinking into a chair. He looked at the floor, not at Thom. Never at Thom. "We'll have to have…the funeral here."

"Do they know yet?" asked Coram.

Jon shook his head. "Just Myles and me," he whispered. "They haven't…gotten anyone to – to bring her out."

Thom had no problems speaking. "Were you and Alanna - "

"Yes," said Jon.

"Well," Thom said, "there's one more rumor about the royal family with its roots in truth, isn't it?"

It wasn't quite a joke. Jon tensed, but smiled when he saw the slight flush on Thom's cheeks and the glare Coram was sending the young man.

It was the first time he'd smiled in a week, he realized.

Oh, Mithros.

"I'll leave you two to settle in," he said quietly. "Thank you for seeing me."

* * *

**Disclaimer: **Tamora Pierce's lawyers said I could do this if I never made her read it or make money from it. No, really, they did. But anyway, the characters, places, and cultures are (mostly) solely her invention. The poem I have quoted is a Japanese poem, but I am neither sure of the title or author, one – or both – of them is definitely Kafu. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two: **Winter_, 436_

There is your book, just as you laid it down,  
Face to the table,—I cannot believe  
That you are gone!—Just then it seemed to me  
You must be here.  
"Interim", Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Conté Duke was very self-possessed as he stood by the pond where they'd lost the prince's squire. Cythera stood next to Raoul of Goldenlake bundled in a long fur cloak, but she still felt the chill. It had, she couldn't help feeling, almost nothing to do with the weather.

How disturbing, the way they had all congregated to see Alan's body retrieved. Even the king and queen were there, faces pinched against the cold and their eyes riveted to their son's face. Lianne was clutching her husband's arm like she was a drowning woman and he the only spar in the whole ocean. Cythera bit her lip and looked to Duke Gareth. He stood by his sister with his son beside him. The Contés all had some support, even Roger – Delia stood behind his left shoulder in a stark black gown.

Cythera found that (almost) funny. It was so typically _Delia_.

Roger was frowning, his eyes riveted to the frozen surface of the pond, his fists clenching and unclenching. When Cythera saw a dark shape moving under the water and heard the ice start to crack, she shut her eyes as tightly as she could.

Raoul, next to her, did not, and she felt the air leave him as much as – more than – she heard it. He'd been there too, she remembered. Well, of course he had been. And he'd known Alan much better than she had. If –

If he could stand seeing his friend's frozen body, then, then surely she could too?

But she didn't get to find out, because they'd already covered Alan's corpse with a sheet and Duke Baird had two servants carrying it off. Roger had something hot to drink and Delia was watching him with a proprietary eye.

_She must be a wretched mistress_, Cythera thought.

Raoul turned to her, offering his arm. "Shall we go in?" he said quietly. Cythera nodded and took his arm. It was a _very_ good idea.

* * *

The most startling discovery wasn't that it was actually Alan of Trebond under the sheet – and Baird knew there was a part of him that had denied Trebond's death until he saw the body. Rather, it was that it wasn't. Or that it was. It was...Baird frowned. It was a _girl_. It couldn't be Alan.

He looked up at his assistant. "Send for the king," he said quietly. "Under _no circumstances_ is the queen to accompany him here."

His assistant nodded and scurried out.

It was a very great pity; Baird had liked the boy – or rather, the girl. It seemed things would be getting even more complicated.

Roald listened to Baird with a quickly darkening face. Roald was not, under normal circumstances, a particularly frightening person, and even now it was somewhat comical to see him so angry. But only somewhat.

"I want to see my son, Thom of Trebond and his manservant," said the King. "And Duke Gareth."

Baird was feeling rather sorry for his assistant, but he sent him out again anyway.

* * *

Jon arrived first, followed by Gareth. Baird could see that the newfound pallor of his son's skin softened Roald a little. He could see that Jon saw it too, and that the boy was bright enough to keep his mouth shut until the King – for Roald _was_ the King at this moment – spoke.

Doubtless Jon already knew what this conversation would be about.

Baird could see that Alan's – er…or not? – brother knew what the conversation would be about from the look on his face when he came into the room. His manservant clearly did as well. Baird flicked his eyes to Roald, and saw that this obvious knowledge of what was coming was hardening him towards them.

"I wonder if you were aware," Roald began, "that your squire was in fact a woman?"

"_What?_" snapped Duke Gareth.

Jonathan closed his eyes. "I was," he admitted.

Roald's lips thinned. He turned toward Thom of Trebond. "What was her name, then?"

"Alanna of Trebond," said Thom. "She…you don't know how badly she wanted to be a knight, You Majesty. You don't."

It was the wrong thing to say. "That does not change the fact that it was illegal for her to enter training as a knight. Which she did. _As someone else_."

"Don't you think it's time we made it possible for women to become knights again, father?" said Jon. "Alanna was one of our best. Surely - "

"We will discuss that later," said the King. "But now I want Lord Thom of Trebond to explain to us all what his sister did and why he let her. And then I want you to explain why you helped her do it, Jonathan."

"Well," said Thom. And then he told them what happened one day a little more than six years ago.

When he finished, Roald's anger had abated a little and some of it had transferred to Lord Alan, so Jonathan's task was not as hard as it might have been. The King turned to Jonathan then, and Baird saw the young man's chest rise as he prepared to speak.

"It's just that she was so good, father," said Jon.

Duke Gareth's expression softened, but Baird knew he had never really liked Lord Alan, and was apt to be fond of anyone who caused him some inconvenience. And Alanna of Trebond _had_, on a truly amazing level. "He's right, Your Majesty," Gareth said. "H – _she_ was very good. And wanted so badly to be a knight."

"She saved my life more than once," murmured Jon.

Roald frowned. "I know," he said quietly. "Very well. My Lord Trebond, your sister's deceit – and yours as well – was hardly a shining moment in your lives. But, for the many services she rendered our family and our realm, we have decided to proceed with the burial plans. It is our hope that she will be remembered for a life cut tragically short, rather than many of her…other qualities."

Thom and the others bowed, looking especially relieved. The King swept out. (It always surprised Jonathan that his father could do that. He never seemed like the kind of man able to pull if off.)

Duke Gareth gave Thom an ironic look. "He means don't do anything stupid for a while. I only mention it because I knew both your father and your, ah, sister, and have more than enough experience with young men." Thom's lips thinned ever so slightly, but he held his tongue.

"Thank you for not…" Jon shrugged. "Thank you, uncle."

"Of course, Jon," said Gareth, moving towards the door. "It gets better, eventually." He let the door swing shut behind him.

"_Well_," said Thom. Jon flinched – Thom looked so much like Alanna sometimes it hurt.

"I really do need to finish this," Baird interrupted. "And I don't think it's something either of you would particularly like to see."

The boys blinked and paled a little. "Of course," said Jon. "We'll be going then." And then they practically ran out of the room. It would have been funny under a different situation. As things stood, it wasn't funny at all.

* * *

Of course, Roald loved his son too much to deny him his friend's funeral, and Alanna of Trebond was formally mourned three weeks after her death in the palace's temple to the Black God. George stood well to the back behind a pillar, the hood of his cloak pulled up. He watched the ceremonies with interest for all that he was so close to Alanna. George had witnessed deaths before, but the full funeral rites only once. They were too expensive for a thief – even when he was the King of Thieves – to purchase at ever death. And anyway, lately only people George didn't like had been dying.

The priests – or, possibly, the priestesses – chanted their prayers at an eerie pitch. The words were too old for anyone not ordained to fully comprehend them, and for all their weird tonality they offered not a little comfort. (_Priests and knights_, thought George, _maddest people in the world_.)

There was a larger crowd than George had expected. Jon, Gary and Raoul were clustered together with Gary and Raoul's squires and Myles. But the King and Queen were there – Roald failing to look stoic and Lianne looking ill – beside Duke Gareth. Roger of Conte looked smooth as ever, and it was that more than anything which separated him from his ravaged family. Alexander of Tirragen was there as well, beside a pretty blonde.

And then, of course there was Thom.

It was beyond difficult to look at Jon, who was much paler than genetics had originally determined and who had a constant stream of tears pouring down his face. But somehow Thom's dry-eyed, twisted expression was worse and George felt his own back begin to ache looking at Thom's rigid posture.

He did not envy the first person to see Thom after this was over.

* * *

Alex held Roger's note between his fingers as he walked through the halls to Roger's rooms. _Come and see me_, it said. It was cheap paper and cheap ink, Roger always used cheap ink and paper. Alex hadn't figured out quite why because it seem a habit at odds with Roger's vanity. But he didn't care enough to puzzle over it now, when he had more pressing things (and more productive things) to puzzle out.

Like what Roger wanted to see him for. Alex was almost certain it had something to do with Alanna's brother, as unpleasant as the thought was. He didn't knock on the door, he hardly ever knocked now, and Roger's voice pulled him into a parlor. It was a parlor Alex knew well. He suspected Roger liked it because it had a discreet door to his bedroom.

"Hello," said Alex.

Roger smiled. "Sit down, Alex. I want to talk to you about some things."

"Oh?" said Alex, a little stiffly. But he sat down.

"Yes," Roger said softly. "And I want to apologize for killing your friend and not telling you beforehand."

"I should have suspected something," Alex said calmly, "when you didn't see me for a week."

"It was necessary," Roger murmured.

"I know," said Alex. "Because you can't ever tell. What did you want to talk about.?"

"Their majesties are going to try and distract my cousin with something – I suspect marriage. So if you find he is receiving expensive presents, like princesses, that's why."

"All right," said Alex. "What else?"

"I really am sorry," Roger said. "I need you to distract her brother."

"Whose brother?" asked Alex innocently.

"Don't be dull, Alex," said Roger. "I know you know exactly whose brother I am talking about."

_Oh, Mithros,_ Alex thought. _This is the last thing I need_. "I suppose Delia is too busy."

"Delia is entirely wrong for this sort of thing," said Roger dryly.

"I see," Alex said quietly. "Won't he be returning to the City of the Gods soon?"

"He can't leave court at Midwinter," said Roger. "And anyway, I want you to give him a reason to return when he finishes – or tires of – his studies."

Alex didn't care if he was being transparent anymore. "Is that all?"

Roger smiled fondly at him, and stood up to open that discreet door. "Did you think it would be?"

* * *

Roger – for better or worse – had been right, and Thom was completely trapped at court. Alex half-suspected that Jon had some bizarre need for Thom to be there, but he had only his suspicions.

The recent revelation about the Trebond family's private lives did not stop the unmarried women from throwing themselves in his way. It could hardly be said that their mothers were discouraging them; Trebond blood was still some of the bluest in the country. Alex wished Thom would be a little more polite in his rejections. Only a little – gossip grew like dandelions in the spring during the Midwinter Court with nothing else for the nobles to divert themselves with. It was simply a matter of time before they tired of the girl-in-the-city or girl-at-home stories, and whispered something more dangerous.

Thom made him uncomfortable. Alex did not like sleeping with people he was lying to, he knew too closely what it felt like. But he did anyway, because of misplaced guilt or because he wasn't brave enough to disobey Roger. Possibly both.

"Delia of Eldorne is the most annoying woman on the face of the earth," Thom declared, slamming the door.

"I know," Alex said. "She's not very bright."

"Will she catch on eventually?" asked Thom, sinking into a chair.

"I can almost guarantee she will," Alex said.

That was how it went with them.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** "Interim" is, I think, still the property of Edna St. Vincent Millay's estate.

A big thank you to Rosie, who owns my soul several times over by now.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three:** _Late Winter, 436_

LOUIS: How extravagant you are, throwing away women like that. Some day they may be scarce.  
_Casablanca (1942)_

It was more difficult to sneak out of the palace and into the Lower City now. His parents seemed to think Alanna's death had aroused some latent suicidal tendencies in Jon. Telling them that going unescorted to the Lower City was much too uncertain a way to do that would probably only have made things worse.

That didn't stop Jon from wanting to _try_ telling them, though.

Just to see what would happen.

But that was hardly the behavior of a responsible heir to the throne. It would only have made things worse, and as it stood now, they were quite bad enough.

Jon pushed his way through the crowd by the door and spotted George, who at least looked pleased to see him. He slid a whore off his lap and pulled out a chair for Jon. "Sit, lad. I'll get you a drink. Unless you'd rather talk upstairs?"

Jon shook his head. "No, I'll just have something to drink."

George waved Solom over and the small crowd of girls away. It wasn't complete privacy, but Jon didn't want that. He wanted people who wouldn't treat him like he was made of glass. He said as much to George, who shrugged philosophically. "Well, what else can they do, Jon?"

"I think my parents want to distract me out of it," Jon murmured.

George raised an eyebrow. "Horses? Women? War?" A smile hovered around his lips.

Jon shrugged. "No idea," he said. "Uncle and…well, everyone, goes around whispering and looking at me sideways and changing the subject when I get closer."

"All of the above then," said George. "Congratulations, Jon, your life is about to get very exciting."

Jon forced a laugh and toasted George, letting the silence settle in while they drank. "It wouldn't be so bad," he said after a long, long moment, "except her brother's here."

George said nothing in the most sympathetic way possible.

"They look so alike," Jon whispered, and downed the rest of his beer. George called for another.

Jon shook his head. "I have to get home," he said.

"I'll walk you there," said George. "Don't worry."

So Jon didn't. George's company was infinitely more reassuring than that of the men Myles had watching him. George knew the city better than anyone in Tortall. It would be all right.

* * *

Thom was packing. 

Judging from the mess on the floor, he wasn't very good at it, either. Alex let the door slam shut.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," said Thom from behind – or beneath? – the pile of clothes in his arms.

"You should let someone else pack for you," Alex said, looking around fastidiously.

"Oh, no," Thom said, "it's far too important." He dropped the clothing in an open trunk near Alex.

Alex frowned down at a miscellaneous mess on the floor. "You're not very good at it," he pointed out.

"Maybe," said Thom, "but it's still too important to let anyone do it for me."

Alex arched an eyebrow and gently lifted the books now in Thom's hands. "Let someone else do it," he murmured against Thom's jaw.

"Maybe it's not _that _important," said Thom quickly.

* * *

Thayet _jian_ Wilima had grown up knowing that her mother was, by all accounts, the most beautiful woman in the entire world.

She had grown up knowing that this was the only reason her father kept either of them around. She had grown up very well aware that neither she nor her mother were wanted in Sarain.

Which was why she – Princess Thayet _jian_ Wilima, the second most beautiful woman in the world, a lady of breeding and brains and beauty – was facing a future even more uncertain than a typical unwanted princess's.

Kalasin was a canny woman. She knew her husband, she knew her people, she knew his people and she knew her country. It was not hard to see what way the wind was blowing Sarain.

The Warlord was not an especially intelligent man. He loved power, and if he wanted to keep Sarain it was only because he wanted to keep power. He recognized the danger his daughter would pose to the security of his position if she were to marry the wrong man or to come under the influence of the K'miri.

So Kalasin, like the clever woman she was, played on that.

When _zhir_ Andua began angling himself for a coup, she pointed out that Thayet would be a useful way for Andua to cement his power. She told the Warlord that the girl meant nothing now, but in three months, in three years that would change. "It all depends upon her husband," Kalasin told him. "The Tortallans would leave you alone; they might even aid you."

Thayet was subconsciously aware of this. She knew what she meant to her father (almost nothing, unless…) and she knew that her mother wanted her out of Sarain. It was too late to save the country, but perhaps they could save themselves.

* * *

"Alex," said Gary.

They were recovering from hangovers in Gary's rooms. Alex was sprawled on the couch, hand over his eyes, and Gary was situated in an arm chair.

"Gary," said Alex through gritted teeth, "what did we say about talking?"

Gary ignored him. "I'm worried about Jon."

Alex rolled over on his side and took his hand from over his eyes. "Er, more than usually?" He opened one eyelid gingerly and decided it was a mistake.

"Yes," said Gary. He chewed thoughtfully on a fingernail. "I think we should do something to help him."

"What is there to do that Their Majesties aren't trying?" Alex asked. "They're parading girls in front of him. They've given him horses – though why I can't think, because they've told him not to hunt – and swords and books."

"Mmm," said Gary, "they do seem to have exhausted all the traditional approaches."

"Of course," Alex said scathingly, "it would help if we weren't _hung over_ while trying to solve Jonathan's problems."

* * *

Delia pooled prettily at Roger's feet. Her head was inclined at a graceful angle and her hands were placed on his knees. Roger tangled a hands in her hair, arched an eyebrow. 

"My dear," he said, "you ought to get married."

Her head flew up at that. Delia stared at him, her face pale, her eyes bright and her brows snapped together. "If I am not yet engaged - " she bit out. Roger waved the hand not in her hair lazily.

"I am hardly at fault for your inability to keep a hold on men," he said. "Nor should you have expected to - "

Delia sprang up, stopping the flow of words. "_You_ are not at fault?"

"Delia," he said coolly. "Control yourself."

She shrunk in on herself, collapsing on a sofa. "I suppose I should go home for a few months."

Roger nodded. "They will love you more in your absence."

Delia threw him a scathing glance. "Don't patronize me, Roger. If you want to drop me, tell me. I'll manage on my own." She tossed her hair. "I did before you, I will after you."

It wasn't precisely true, but Roger let it pass. Delia rose gracefully and went to the door. She paused, turned to look at him. "Who are you marrying?"

Roger smiled. "Good-bye, my dear."

* * *

Delia of Eldorne left Corus early, just when the winter balls began to taper off. Corus in the spring was generally dull anyway, and Eldorne had suffered during the winter. They needed all hands and minds there to help recover and rebuild. At least, that was her excuse. She was not much missed – Delia was a beauty, but Cythera of Elden was newer, younger and prettier. And Cythera was not known to be the mistress of a powerful and dangerous sorcerer. She stayed longer, too.

It had not been a good winter. Eldorne wasn't the only fief that suffered and Alex worried about Tirragen. He wrote frantic letters home until his mother replied with a short, snappish note saying that they were fine except his father had caught a cold during the winter. Alex didn't care about that – his father was tougher than old shoe leather and about as appealing. So he stayed in Corus and worked on Geoff's swordplay. It was slow going.

* * *

Myles couldn't quite understand why Lianne and Roald thought throwing girls at Jonathan would heal his, apparently broken, heart. The cure for that illness was friendship and time, not romance. But try telling the king and queen that. Myles exchanged a wry glance with Duke Gareth as Lianne once more raised the possibility of Josiane Rittevon.

"Her mother is a very great friend of mine," Lianne said defensively, intercepting the look.

"_Yes_, Your Majesty," said Myles. "But the family has a history of insanity, and there is considerable political turmoil in the Copper Isles."

"Marry him to a Tortallan lady when the time comes," Gareth said gently. "We will need stability within our own country."

Roald raised an eyebrow. "Our own political turmoil can barely even be deemed as such."

"There are…tensions, Your Majesty," said Gareth. "Forgive me, but they are there."

"Surely it would not hurt to bring Josiane here for a few months," Lianne said. Myles rubbed his temples. Had the woman heard _anything_?

"Of course not, my dear," said Roald. "She will be presented at court in the summer, when the balls begin again."

Lianne shook her head. "It should be Midwinter," she said. "Midwinter…would be perfect."

Myles would have given almost anything for a healthy queen or a king who loved his wife much less. The Copper Isles were better than Sarain or Scanra, but only just barely.

Roald dismissed them. It would not be completely inaccurate to say that Myles fled. Or, at least, he would have if Dermot ha Minch and Duke Gareth hadn't interposed themselves between Myles and his exit. It wasn't fair that IDermot/I was so much taller.

"Myles," said Gareth, "I think we should talk."

* * *

**Disclaimer:** _Casablanca_ belongs, presumably, to Warner Brothers. Tortall is also not mine. As I think you all can tell.

Caitie gets tons of props and kudos and cookies and things for betaing this and fixing my grammar. Also, I'd like to apologize to anyone who was holding their breath for this chapter, and I hope it didn't cause any lasting damage. / May I suggest you Inot/I do so again?


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four:**_ Late Winter – Early Spring, 436_

"Oh, no," Richard protested, surprised. "I like girls very much."  
"Richard," drawled Alex, whose left leg was beginning to cramp, "you're breaking my heart."  
"The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death", Ellen Kushner

"Myles," said Gareth, "a match with the Copper Isles would be a _very_ bad thing."

Myles had taken both men back to his sitting room. Dermot took up the entirety of one of Myles' sofas – his legs were quite long, and Myles was mildly surprised to see that any part of them fit on it – and Gareth sat by him at a table. Myles offered him an orange.

"I know," he said. "Even if we only believe the rumors I _don't_ put about, the picture we're getting isn't a good one."

Gareth and Dermot chuckled. Myles generally disliked men with notable military prowess because they tended to have romantic ideas about the Code of Chivalry and unflattering ones about spies. Dermot ha Minch would have fit perfectly into that category were he not himself the son of a former spymaster and wily enough to have earned himself deceptively flattering nicknames whenever he commanded soldiers. Myles thought that had the Lord Provost and Dermot ha Minch been switched at birth, there would be no noticeable differences in the current state of the country.

Dermot ha Minch had enough daughters for his interest in keeping Josiane out of Tortall to be anything but altruistic. Still, any of the Minchi girls would have been preferable to Josiane – especially given the fruitful tendencies of the Minchis and the sparsely populated Conté families.

"We are not here to talk about the Copper Isles anymore," said Dermot, interrupting Myles' reverie.

"No?" said Myles.

"No," said Gareth softly. "We are here to talk about Sarain."

Myles rubbed his forehead. "Princess Thayet would be a very bad match for His Highness," he began.

Gareth shook his head. "It is not Jonathan that I am speaking of."

Myles raised an eyebrow. He looked to Dermot, who grinned. The light glinted off his teeth and Myles was very glad that he was on _their_ side.

"His Grace, the Duke of Conté," said Dermot in tones that relayed his disapproval, "has spoken, for reasons passing understanding, to both of us of his desire to wed the girl."

Myles lifted an eyebrow. "Roger would wed Thayet _jian_ Wilima?"

There was a wry twist to Gareth's mouth. "They do say that only her mother is more beautiful."

"They are quite correct," said Myles, "but Adigun _jin_ Wilima came to power only very recently. And what could we possibly hope to gain? Sarain is doomed to internal strife for the next few decades at least. _Jin_ Wilima will not keep his power."

"There are some trade incentives," said Gareth. "Sarain would give us access to the Roof of the World and the K'mir have magics our own mages are unfamiliar with." He shrugged. "The Wilimas are an influential family in Sarain even when they are not Warlords. The benefits would not be wholly one-sided."

"Nor would they be anywhere near evenly distributed," said Myles. It baffled him, to see two otherwise intelligent men defending such a foolish alliance. "I would not place too much hope in learning K'miri magic. If the lowlanders do not kill them, they will kill each other."

"Savages," murmured Dermot.

"Only if you know nothing of our own history," said Myles.

Gareth sighed. "It no longer truly matters whom Roger marries," he admitted. "He is fully grown, and he is of age with none of the still marriageable royal women. He is only the heir until Jon has his own children. If he asks permission of the king to marry her…" Gareth shrugged. "It will be granted. They will not deny him anything."

"Which doesn't mean that we approve," said Dermot, "only that we try to make the best of the situation."

"Ah," said Myles. "The trading benefits will last only so long as _jin_ Wilima stays the Warlord."

"Yes," said Gareth resignedly.

"They will not take kindly to our interaction with the K'mir," Myles said.

"They're marrying a half-breed from, at best, the Book of Glass to a Duke whose mother's family predates all the Books and who is currently in line for the throne," said Dermot ha Minch. "They will accept our terms."

* * *

Roger employed his own spies. There were not very many of them, but he only needed a few in very select locations. Roger was certain that Myles was aware he kept his own agents, but he was also certain that Myles didn't know what they were doing. He had taken precautions. 

He examined both the small wiry man standing before him and the concise newly submitted report on his desk. Stefano Ugo could be difficult to deal with, but he was also Roger's best agent. He didn't know how Ugo managed to get places no one else could, but he'd spent considerable time in the company of Thayet _jian_ Wilima and Roger no longer particularly cared how it had been managed.

"The reports are not exaggerated, then?" he said.

Ugo shrugged. "Not in the least. She is a very beautiful young woman. She possesses remarkable poise at the age of seventeen, especially for a girl who is rarely allowed out of her own rooms."

"Is she intelligent?" asked Roger.

Ugo shrugged again. It was his most common form of expression. "She is not noticeably stupid. I believe she has some tenacity inherited from her mother and her mother's people. Which…" He shrugged once more.

"Thank you, Ugo," said Roger. "That will be all." He tossed a bag on the table. The sound it made was a pleasant mixture of a jingling and thud. Ugo swept it up with a quick hand.

"Your Grace," said the spy, bowing. He left quietly. He did most things quietly; it was part of why he was so valuable.

* * *

Geoffrey did not understand Alex's interest in math. Very few people did. Fencing was a perfectly normal interest, and if no one could understand it like Alex did – except Duke Gareth, but they hadn't had a lesson in weeks – it was an interest infinitely more common among Alex's friends. Even Roger had no interest or understanding of math. It was one of the few things he let Alex have all to himself. 

In the wildly nonstudious atmosphere of Tortall's capital, it was difficult to keep track of academic advances. But one of the few benefits of sleeping with Thom had been a wealth of mathematical news at his fingertips – or so it had seemed in comparison, despite Thom's vast disinterest in the subject he couldn't help but absorb some knowledge. There was, Alex learned, a woman in Tyra who had written a book – that was as far as he got whenever he tried to talk to anyone about it.

Thom hadn't told him any of the specifics, but he had gotten the name and the author's. The royal library didn't have a copy. The university wouldn't let their copy out to non-students and Alex didn't feel like investing the time or the money in that institution. None of the merchants had a copy and when he had spoken to the Mithran who taught the pages mathematics then man had declared it heretical. (Alex had never liked him – he was too much inclined to give Gallans credit for advances in math that rightly belonged to the Bazhir – but it was still irritating.)

So Alex was left on his own to procure a copy. His latest tactic was attempting to meet with the Tyran ambassador and convince him to purchase a copy. The man was slow to answer Alex's letters, but Gary had assured him that the ambassador was that way with everyone and that the important thing was to _keep_ writing letters.

Really, though. After five letters the man might make _some_ reply.

* * *

Buri paced around Thayet's room. 

Thayet herself lay sleepily on a divan, watching her friend's progress through half-closed eyes. Despite any fairytales to the contrary, there was really very little for an unwanted princess to do without the appropriate funds. The Warlord, Thayet learned early on, did not mind _spending_ money on his daughter but he would never _give_ her money outright.

"When will the Tortallans make an offer?" Buri asked suddenly.

Thayet shrugged. "Soon. My mother made him pretend to seriously consider Carthak and Maren. She thinks it will not be long now."

"As if Kalasin would ever consent to let you be another wife in a Carthaki harem," Buri said. She snorted.

"I wouldn't mind a harem so much, I think," Thayet said with a lazy smile, "except there is very little to do in one and the Carthakis are a notoriously lazy people. Maren frightens me much more. It would be like marrying a lowlander."

"Is he handsome?" Buri asked. "The Duke, I mean."

"I believe so," said Thayet. "They are a well-favored family, in general. And he is not - " she stopped, recovered herself. "He is not very old."

"He is old enough," said Buri and the way she said it made Thayet want to run across the room and embrace her for the rest of forever. Perhaps on a cooler day she might have done so. Instead, she lay back and looked at the younger girl affectionately. "In Tortall…"

"Yes?" said Buri.

"In Tortall, you will be as free as I can make you."

* * *

Gary and Raoul had significantly less time to themselves now. Gary also tended to prefer going drinking with Alex because Alex was not dangerous in the way that Raoul was when he got drunk. But Alex didn't know George and now he _would_ never know George, so Gary and Raoul went to the Dancing Dove together whenever they could. Somehow, Raoul drunk there was better than Raoul drunk anywhere else and certainly better than Raoul drunk alone. 

It was frustrating, being the least damaged of your friends, but Gary tried his best.

When they arrived, George was – for mysterious reasons of his own, no doubt – not yet installed in his customary spot. Gary and Raoul found themselves a relatively quiet table in a corner where nothing they were likely to say would reach unwanted ears. Gary waved down Solom and the first two beers of their evening. The weather had the warmth of false spring and they'd both had to do thirsty work that day.

Somehow between the third mug of beer and the fourth, the girls had decided that neither Gary nor Raoul were worth the effort and left for greener pastures. They'd also gotten on the topic of Jon (which meant Alanna) though why or how or who Gary couldn't have said.

"I'm worried about him," he told Raoul. Or possibly he told his beer mug, but Raoul heard it too.

Raoul's smile was slightly sodden but heartfelt. "You worry about all of us."

It was true, and they both knew it.

"I mean - " Gary paused " - it's been months, now. And no sign of improvement."

"Not everyone recovers from broken hearts quite as quickly as you do," George said from behind them. Gary and Raoul made room for him at the table. Or Gary did, anyway. Raoul was clearly thinking about what George had said.

"What?"

George looked surprised. "I thought it was gossip in court," he said. "They were lovers, lads. Kept it quiet, or tried, but I thought it would've made it's way 'round in one form or 'nother."

"No," said Gary quietly, "the only Conté people have recently accused of sleeping with his squire is Roger."

"Of course with Roger it was true," said Raoul and Gary was drunk enough not to care very much. Anyway, _that_ was also true, although the whispers had quickly faded. Gary hoped they wouldn't spring up again in Delia's absence.

"You can't simply heal a broken heart," said George. "It won't work."

"Tell the queen that," muttered Gary.

George smiled bitterly and Gary knew they were both thinking of the same piece of news. "I'm watching out for Jon," he said. "Don't worry so."

It was difficult to argue with a Thief King, even when he was one of your best friends.

"Join us in a drink?" Raoul suggested.

"If you promise not to fall over on your way home," George said.

Gary and Raoul exchanged embarrassed grins as they waved one of Solom's girls over. "We'll do our best," Raoul said.

* * *

Alex's breathing still came hard and fast and heavy; his legs were still tangled with Roger's. It was, perhaps, not an ideal time. Roger could be a sadistic bastard when it suited him, as apparently it did now. Alex was for a moment completely still. His breathing calmed. 

A slender smile played around Roger's mouth. He slipped from the bed and pulled on a dressing gown. "Have I surprised you, Alex?" he asked. Pleasure at the prospect hummed in his voice.

"I'm only worried that you mean to marry Delia," Alex said. His own voice was perfectly controlled. Alex was not – had never been – stupid. (Except once, fantastically so, and that one instance seemed to be ruining his life.)

Roger laughed. He poured them both cups of wine and slid back into the bed.

"No," he said, "my intention has never been to marry Delia."

"Then I offer my congratulations on your forthcoming marriage," said Alex.

He would interrogate Gary about it tomorrow.

The documents that, in theory, would cement the marriage of Thayet _jian_ Wilima and Roger of Conté made their way with truly alarming speed to the Warlord's palace. Likewise, the marriage negotiations took an unseemly short period of time. But there was little Sarain could offer Tortall that Tortall wanted – besides the girl herself.

Thayet would arrive in Corus in summer and would marry Roger in autumn. Delia of Eldorne broke a vase when the news reached her, but no one was there to remark on it.

Prince Jonathan's reaction likewise went unmarked.

* * *

**AN: **For future reference, I will probably be updating this more quickly via my new fanfiction journal. The address is, I believe listed in my profile but I can't get it to work in this note. Thanks to K'miri Kalasin at the Dove for the beta job. 


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